


Still-Life

by roanniom



Category: Girls (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-14 12:54:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28920891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roanniom/pseuds/roanniom
Summary: You and Sackler enjoy a night of painting and flirting. Neither of you are good at the painting, but both of you are great at the flirting.
Relationships: Adam Sackler & Reader, Adam Sackler & You, Adam Sackler/Reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 9





	Still-Life

“You’re better at this shit than I am, kid. Holy shit.”

You glance around your canvas and past your kitchen table at Adam who stands, holding his brush like a mallet – something to be wielded for pain rather than art. You push your hair out of your face with the back of your hand and laugh.

“Adam, you haven’t even seen mine to know if it’s shit or not.”

“Yeah but I’ve seen mine and I know it’s shit. It’s a fuckin’ travesty. Da Vinci is shitting in his grave.”

You snort into the mug of hot chocolate you’re sipping.

“Christ! The expression is “rolling in his grave,” you freak.”

Adam dabs violently onto his canvas, no doubt with brush strokes the size of highway lanes.

“No I mean seriously, if Da Vinci saw this he would fucking shit in his grave, kid.”

“You are absolutely disgusting. Did you know that?” you ask, practically doubled over in laughter. Adam laughs loudly, too, whether entertained by his own words or pleased with your reaction, you’re not sure. Your own laughter has caused you to totally mess up the still-life you were painting of the bowl of fruit set up on the table between you. You blot at a speck of pink that, instead of disappearing, ends up making your depiction of a banana look decidedly more phallic than intended.

“I’m not that disgusting, you know. I have layers,” Adam carries on as you frantically try to render your painting less penis and more produce.

“Yes, Adam, I’m aware that you’re quite the nuanced guy,” you mutter through your momentary distraction.

“People underestimate me. Like just the other day. I saw a woman struggling to carry her bags out of the bodega and so I went to help her and she fucking smacked me with her purse. She was all ‘get the fuck away from me pervert.” Adam pushes his brush angrily enough into the canvas that you can see the whole thing shake with the movement.

“You do give off pervert vibes, babe.” You wink at him over your canvas and he shrugs it off.

“Well so I was like fucking fine. Deal with your own shit then. And you know what happened?”

“What?”

“She dropped all her bags. Every last one. And her fucking purse rolled all the way over to me and for a split second I considered taking it and running like hell to teach her a fucking lesson about basic fucking decency. But I didn’t, you know why?”

“No, why?” you prompt, thoroughly entertained by his rambling which serves as a melodic albeit cranky backdrop to your relaxed painting.

“Because I’m a fucking gentleman. That’s why. Another thing people underestimate about me.”

You look up from your painting then to flash him a bright grin.

“You are a gentleman. A special kind of gentleman.”

Adam looks up quickly, paint brush clutched too-tight in his hand.

“What do you mean ‘special,’ that makes it sound weird.”

“Well, come on, Adam. You have to admit. You’re not exactly the traditional, dyed-in-the-wool gentleman. And I mean that as a compliment,” you say, rolling your eyes and dragging your brush through your rapidly dwindling supply of yellow. Somehow the mixture of the pink and the yellow has resulted in a marvelously realistic shade of flesh-tone and you’re not sure if you should continue trying to fix it or just lean into it at this point.

“Are you telling me that when you see me you don’t think – ‘Adam Sackler, debonair, chivalrous, dashing, able to make a lady swoon, master a duel, and have tea with the queen all before supper’?” He says all this in a high pitched, kitschy British accent that you recognize from one of the comedic plays he was in last summer. He accentuates his question by miming tipping an imaginary top hat and dropping into a ridiculously low bow. The motion brings his brush to his face and he accidentally leaves a swipe of green across the side of his nose.

“No,” you say playfully. “It’s more like ‘Adam Sackler – loveable idiot extraordinaire, able to maintain horniness of epic proportions morning, noon, and night.’”

“Ah. I stopped listening at loveable, so I’m pretty okay with that assessment.”

You throw a used paint brush across the table at him and he flails dramatically.

“You got fucking yellow on my canvas! There’s yellow shit fucking up my art and it’s all your fault,” he yells, despite the massive smile on his face.

“It barely touched anything.”

“You’ve ruined my painting.”

“Jesus Christ, Adam…”

“Now I don’t have fame to look forward to after I die.”

“You are the worst -”

“DA VINCI FORGIVE ME!”

You leap out of your chair then and grab him around the shoulders, yanking him down so you can silence his maniacal blabbing with a kiss that bubbles with laughter.

Adam’s large, warm hands close in around your waist, pulling you into him, welcoming your invasion of his space. You’re happy for the moment of silence now that Adam’s lips are occupied, but you’re also happy to be connected after spending the last hour looking at him from across the table. When you’d come home with paints and canvases and demand he paint with you earlier this afternoon, you’d half expected him to flat out dismiss you. But instead, he’d thrown himself into it with self-deprecating enthusiasm. Your heart was full to bursting and you were feeling a little light headed. Okay, that could also be the paint fumes, you two really should have opened a window, but as you’re your tongues explore each other’s mouths you really cant think of a better way to spend an evening.

When you finally break apart, you turn to look at what he’s painted.

“The fuck is this?” you ask.

“I fucking told you, kid. I have no idea what I’m doing here!” Adam rubs his neck sheepishly and pulls you down to sit on his knee as you two scrutinize his work of art.

You squint at the amorphous swirl of shapes and colors that completely covers the canvas. The paint is so thick in some places that it’s dripping down to puddle on the newspaper-covered table underneath. In other places paint is seemingly sponged on in erratic, peppering spots. It’s cacophonous, it’s aggressive, it’s brilliantly technicolor…but it’s not a bowl of fruit.

“But like,” you chew the inside of your cheek, thinking of how to phrase your question. “Where’s the apple…or the orange…or the banana.”

“Wait – shit, fuck. Were we supposed to be drawing the fruit?” Adam’s hand rushes to cover his face so fast you hear a resounding smack.

“Yeah, that was the idea.”

Adam’s massive hands cover his eyes and he drags down, pulling his skin grotesquely before dropping his hands down to your waist again.

“Well fucking – fuck. Yeah. Didn’t know that.”

“So if this isn’t a bowl of fruit…what the fuck is it?” you laugh incredulously.

Adam stares straight at his canvas, his jaw setting. You try to make eye contact but he avoids you. Strange.

“Adam?” you prompt, quieter.

“What I’m going to say isn’t going to make any sense either, I promise you.” Adam’s jaw is set slightly and you reach a finger up to massage at it, making him loosen.

“Tell me. I promise I won’t laugh.”

“Its…ahh fuck. I don’t know.” Adam lets out a loud grunt of discomfort and fiddles with the hem of your shirt at your waist, jostling you about on his knee. “It’s kind of…you?”

“Me?” you ask, your eyes flying from his face to the painting and back again.

“Yeah.”

“Me or the guts inside of me?” A smile threatens to spread at the corners of your mouth but you suppress it, having promised not to laugh.

“Nah it’s not exactly you. It’s more the way I…feel about you.”

“How you feel?”

“Yeah.” Adam reaches out a hand and points to the top right corner. “You know, sometimes I look at you and I just feel…purple, you know? Like this fucking crazy shade of purple, it’s like my brain is mainlining Barney or something.” He points now at a sparse collection of spots. “This is…I don’t fucking know. It’s what your breathing sounds like when I can’t fucking sleep at night and I count your breaths instead of fucking sheep because those are definitely the least sleep inducing farm animals, I don’t care what anyone says.”

Your breath catches in your throat at that and you swallow it, not wanting to interrupt his explanations. You point wordlessly to another frenetic splotch of shapes and he continues.

“Yeah that. I don’t know, this part is mainly about how you make my kidneys want to explode sometimes.”

“Your…kidneys.”

“You ever been punched in the kidneys?” Adam asks, like it’s the most universal thing ever. You shake your head slowly and he shrugs. “Well that shit hurts like a motherfucker.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“So sometimes you say things that are just like the fucking cutest things in the god damn world. You do something that’s so motherfucking adorable and I can’t fucking stand it.”

“I’m cute, I get it,” you swat at him, feeling self-conscious.

“Sometimes in those moments I look at you and I feel worse than a kick in the kidneys. I feel like they’re packed with fucking dynamite.”

“Ow.”

“Yeah ow. But It also feels kind of good somehow.” Your eyebrows shoot up in confusion and he is quick to clarify. “It doesn’t entirely make sense but it’s like the sweetest pain ever. It knocks the wind out of me but at the same time that kind of makes me realize that I was breathing in the first place. Which is pretty fucking cool.”

You’re not looking at the painting anymore, your eyes instead taking in nothing but the face of the beautiful, strange man in front of you. You reach up and wipe at the little stripe of green paint on his nose, an action that causes him to launch forward and nuzzle his noise into your neck, spreading the paint. Your resulting squeal is soon silenced by a kiss that warms you more than any hot chocolate every could.

Adam stands up then, bringing you to your feet with him.

“Painting has been fun,” he says, looking down at you and smoothing his hands over your waist.

“It has, thanks for doing it with me.” You smile up at him, thankful in that moment for every shade he brings to your life.

“Can we fuck now, though?” He thrusts his hips dramatically into you and you burst out laughing.

“Oh yes, what a fucking gentleman, indeed.”

“‘Fucking Gentleman,’ yeah I feel like that describes who I am,” Adam says with a crooked smile, already dragging you to the bedroom.

Just as you reach the threshold he tosses a look over your shoulder back at your canvas.

“Hey, why did you draw a bowl of dicks?”

~*~


End file.
